I know you are grieving, in agony over your loss.
Anything I can think to say or do seems insignificant in the face of this monumental tragedy.
I am powerless to comfort you, and that rips me apart. And then I realize that I am thinking about my feelings and not yours, and that makes me feel like a terrible friend. And then I realize I am again thinking about me and not you.
I am so sorry that I cannot grasp this slippery, spherical tragedy. It runs through my fingers like water, and then I look at you, and I see it clings to you like white phosphorous, sticking and burning through your soul.
I am so sorry that I am secretly relieved this has never, ever happened to me, and I silently hope it never will. I know this doesn't make me a bad person, only human, but I still feel like a cretin for feeling this way.
If I could fix this, I would.
If I could have stopped this, I would have.
If your miscarriage had been a wild animal or a madman I would beat it to death with a tire iron, and then mount its head on a pike as an object lesson to the world that NO ONE HURTS MY FRIENDS AND LIVES.
I wish I could comfort you in a way that could actually bring you respite.
I wish I could spirit you away to a safe haven where you will never ever be hurt like this again. And I would stand guard there, like the angel at the gate to Eden, with a flaming sword and the resolve that the only things which entered would be those things which you desired, and woe be unto the unwelcome.
I can do none of these things.
Instead, all I can do is tell you that I hurt for you, and with you.
I will share your burden, if you will let me. Cry on my shoulder, scream in my ear, beat my breast with your fists. You cannot hurt me any more than you yourself are hurting.
I love you.
I will not attempt to take this pain from you. It is yours, and precious, because I know what it means to you.
Just know that I hurt with you, and you will never, EVER, be alone.
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